


Dream a Little Dream of Me

by HiddenLacuna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreamtalking, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't shut up, even when he's asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream a Little Dream of Me

John surfaces slowly out of the depths of a deep and dreamless sleep. He feels Sherlock’s warm back pressed against his own and wonders what has woken him. Blinking in the quarter-darkness, which is as much as London can manage in these days of arc sodium streetlights, John tenses and listens. Trouble?

Sherlock is laughing in his sleep.

John grins and rolls over to curl himself around his insane lover. Raising himself on one elbow, John can see Sherlock sprawled across his half of their bed by the light of the clock radio, his hair and limbs in disarray. His breathing is deep and slow and even. His eyes are moving rapidly behind his paper-thin eyelids. Dream, then.

Sherlock is carefree while asleep in a way he simply _can’t_ be while awake. Conscious, Sherlock’s brain is sorting through information and making connections and discarding irrelevancies and working through problems and cataloguing every incoming detail of the world. _Every second of every minute of every hour._ It’s exhilarating. Tremendously exciting. And completely exhausting. John can only imagine, quite literally.

John smooths the unruly black curls off Sherlock’s face and kisses him softly on the cheek by his left ear. He never knew he could love someone, and be loved in return, so fiercely and completely. He realizes that what he’d thought was love with previous girlfriends was merely attraction, comfort, lust, and fear of change. With Sherlock, he has found the missing half of his soul he didn’t know hadn’t been there until suddenly, that January day at Bart’s, it was. About this, about _him_ , John is absolutely certain. He felt like he’d been dead all his life and that now he was finally alive. Sherlock makes his mind swirl, his blood sing, his heart swell, and... well, other things stir, too.

John drops his head gently to the space above Sherlock’s neck and inhales deeply, loving the man in his arms but wanting to let him sleep. Sherlock smells of amber, and paper, and lemons, and hay, and, ever-so-faintly, of acrid smoke. The times when John is the one awake and Sherlock sleeping are incredibly rare, and much as John might want Sherlock to wake up to see what wonderful and unpredictable thing he would do next, he wants more for his lover to stay in whatever world he is exploring inside his head that makes him smile like a child and laugh like distant thunder.

Sherlock stirs a little and twists his head to meet John’s lips in a slow and sleepy kiss. “Arright?” he murmurs, still smiling.

“Everything’s fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep.” John smooths the hair back from his beloved’s pale forehead again and nuzzles into the back of his head. He entwines the fingers of his left hand into Sherlock’s sleep-lax ones and presses their double fist into the centre of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wriggles back against him and settles more deeply into John and the pillows and his dreamworld. John’s heart aches. He cannot believe how lucky he is.

“You shouldn’t go if you don’t have the right shoes,” Sherlock says, suddenly articulate. “I’ll tell him we fell in and that will be that. Not even Mycroft can pull together a chariot race at this time of night.”

John is startled into laughing a little himself. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing rate is unchanged. What goes on in that busy little head of his? John shakes his head fondly and grins into the night, and places another quiet kiss onto Sherlock’s shoulderblade.

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock mumbles, petulantly. “I know the secret of wings. I can make the letter heh heh heh heh....” and he trails off into rumbling laughter again. John presses his forehead into the back of the mad genuis’ neck. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Sleep, love,” he says. “Sleep. It’s all right. You’ll get the letter right, I know you will.”

Sherlock sleeps.

And dreams.

 

_”Vene, Iohannes,” Sherlock demands, striding among the olive trees. He has just bested Mycicero in a battle of oratory skill in the forum, and now he will drop in on Caesar and receive the scrolls which will allow him and John safe passage back to Britannia, where they are to command a legion of soldiers at Londinium. Sherlock has a paper airship built and hidden on the top of the Palatine Hill, and he and John will launch it from the Colosseum and pedal it home across the skies and be home in time for tea. John’s skin shines like bronze under the young Mediterranean sun and Sherlock watches the leonine slide of his muscles under his centurion’s uniform, and says "Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?" and laughs and laughs and laughs._


End file.
